HOW TO SPOOK A TRANNY!

Given all the she males Dollar Bill has known over the years, if there’s one thing he should be good at it would be how to “spook” a she male. No...not how to scare her...but how to detect the on-the-down-low three-legged femme fatale in almost the same way you might figure out that some guy with a $2,000 toupee is actually bald!

It’s happened to everybody! You go to a bar...and there’s this chick. She’s looking at your crotch - checking out the package - as she licks her lips. You think you’ve died and gone to heaven. Finally, some bitch is drooling in anticipation of sucking your big hog. OK! So you get her home, start fooling around, and then let your fingers head south. It’s the moment of truth!! Are you ready for the forbidden fruit or not? Some guys dive and gobble. Some guys knock the bitch out. Regardless, you find yourself in an awkward position. Maybe, there’s somebody out there who can help you avoid these uncomfortable moments? And that’s where I, Dollar Bill, come in to save the day. Cape and all, I’m here to let you know how to ascertain that even the most feminine and gorgeous of women is in fact not born that way.

In this day and age of advanced surgery, depilation and hormone therapy, some trannies have become remarkably gorgeous and almost totally “unspookable.” But there are certain signs that will let you know that beneath her legs lurks that long, thick, hard male weapon - and not a stinky little hole you have no interest in - which is why you’re a tranny chaser in the first place. Yeah, pussy is good sometimes - we know. But nothing beats the thrill of a she male sex nympho! That’s why this magazine sells so well.

Spooking really good-looking she males involves not just your eyesight - but all the senses. For example, trannies generally wear strong, wafty, and very seductive perfume. A real girl’s scent is gentle and subtle, giving off a come hither style air. A tranny’s is in your face. IT says “Come suck my big cock and then I’ll suck yours which I’ll bet is even bigger!!” So your sense of smell can be helpful in spooking a hot tranny. I remember during the heyday of Screw, walking into the outer office to see and smell ten trannies waiting to run their ads. The power of all the perfume was overwhelming - and nauseating. All I could think of at the time was ten trannies in a pile, fucking and sucking and spunking and getting down and dirty super slut style with anybody who wanted to join in. The editors used to run through the crowd, pinching their noses all the way, as they exited for lunch hour at the local deli.

Your sense of hearing can also be a tool in this pursuit. Trannies have very exaggerated vocal tones and their own language. While some have had their vocal chords shortened - and others consciously raise their vocal pitch when they speak, often their voices will crack like an adolescent’s or simply be too deep to go unnoticed and unquestioned.
The tranny’s vocabulary is also very different from a natural born woman’s. Expressions like “ova,” “you go girl,” “oh, scandal,” and several others are clear indications that the “female” before you actually has a dick under her skirt or at least, that she you hangs out with a lot of she males and should be placed under suspicion.

Your sense of touch is another sensual tool to help you ascertain the birth gender of your prey. As in...if you go to finger her and you come up with a fist full of balls and cock, she may just be a tranny! To be more serious, the smoothness of her skin (or lack of) can be a tactile indication. Hand/feet size and texture is another barometer. While trannies can induce breast and butt enlargement either hormonally or surgically, nobody has perfected the art of making a tranny’s feet or hands smaller, smoother or daintier. Wanna know if that girl you met in the club is a tranny? Ask her to remove her shoes and socks. That should do the trick (so to speak).

Next, the sense of taste! Yup! If you’re tongue kissing your goddess and she tastes a little sticky...or you’re sucking her big clit and suddenly a gush of white sticky stuff projects from her engorgement, you just might be a tranny chaser!

Ok! I’ll get off this ridiculous bender and make a point. If you’re reading this magazine, what makes you futuristic and unique - and not just dull and humdrum - is that you’re spooking trannies because you’re hoping the girl HAS a dick - and a big one. Normally, the act of spooking involves a straight man making sure he isn’t being seduced by a faggot! And so fellas, count yourselves hot, cool, metrosexual and all those other modern adjectives. While repressed white-collared conservatives only dream about having a huge cock, you guys go out and find one - and a chick with huge tits - all on the same body. Hey! you only live once - and you’re living a lot more freely, enjoyably and openly than your shamefully pitiful counterparts. And there’s my socially observant - if not redeeming -message.

WHERE TO FIND THE TRANNY OF YOUR DREAMS

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TRANS-SEX IN THE CITY!

Regardless of your gender or sexual orientation, one immutable fact continues to plague everybody who’s looking for love in all the wrong places. It seems almost impossible to find! Once again Dollar Bill reveals in no uncertain terms that even the most gorgeous, racked and packed she male still struggles to find the ultimate romantic connection in her very own soap opera appropriately named “Trans-sex In The City.”

Running the gauntlet of transsexuality is an especially precarious pursuit for those in the life, especially when it comes to finding true love and romance. For things aren’t always what they seem when a girl hits a mixed club to find a hot and straight stud. As I’ve mentioned before, she males aren’t interested in homosexual men. They want a straight man to love. But while they still have their dicks (most aspire to lose theirs eventually for the perfect man) finding that straight man can be especially difficult.

I mean...can you imagine what would happen if a guy with a pussy instead of a dick went to a club, picked up a woman, and then brought her home for sex? In the majority of cases, the girl wouldn’t be real happy to find that her stud-to-be had nothing between his legs. Well, the same can be said for transsexuals whose one-night-standers are expecting a pussy at the moment of consummation.

On several occasions I’ve spoken to she males who have confessed tales from the club world and exactly how they go about finding true love with someone they actually want to have sex with - as opposed to somebody who pays them. That’s not to say that all clients of she males are unattractive. And indeed, I know girls who have turned clients into live-in boyfriends. But as with natural females, rarely is the guy who’s paying them for their time the same guy they would like to hang out with and have sex with for free.

And so when the work day is done, the girls (female or she male) will often go clubbing, looking for love and romance in a very liquor and drug-induced after midnight nether world. As anybody who’s gone clubbing knows, the aforementioned subculture is an eclectic mix of straight, bi and homosexual men and women who DON’T wear any labels revealing their sexual orientation.

The games begin as the crowd mingles. Picture this: Miss Honey is dressed to the nines, high heels, Calvin Klein, Gucci and whatever setting off her burgeoning double d’s, phat booty and long legs. Mr. heterosexual gets one look and it’s a wrap. He’s got to have her. The two bob and weave and flirt with the she male titillating the guy’s boner. They both want to run home and fuck right then and there...but she has another idea. If the guy’s a cocksucker - but cute - she may take him home just to have some hot sex. But if he appears to be straight and longing for some deep wet pussy to fill...that’s another story entirely. This relationship must be cultivated. And for two reasons.

First, he’s a straight man - which puts him at a premium because she males don’t want homosexual men in the first place. And second, quick first night sex with a hetero guy could bring a beating at the moment of truth - or just as likely an “Excuse me, I have to go,” at that same operative moment.

Generally, the she male will feel the vibrations and control the situation appropriately. Most of the time, a little dance floor grind (she’s usually taped so he can’t feel anything) and an exchange of numbers, followed by numerous phone calls or dates will ensue, the theory being that eventually, the guy will become so “open” on the girl he just won’t care that she has a dick. Just so he can hug and kiss and suck her tits and get his dick sucked, eventually the love he feels for the girl will convince him to suck her dick, or fuck her in the ass simply to satisfy his partner.

Or if the she male just can’t wait (as in one case), she’ll bring the guy home and blow his brains out (sexually that is), or give him a fabulous titty fuck, feigning her femininity with the excuse that she’s having her period while still having the opportunity to enjoy his company.

Of course, there’s another side to this equation. The cagey bisexual hound dog on the prowl knows about all this drama and will often pretend to be a completely clueless and heterosexual man because he knows that’s what the she male wants. And so he’ll play the game - and the tranny - just to get what HE wants. Imagine a guy who totally knows what time it is, gawking at the she male’s throbbing member, and then “nervously” diving, sucking virginally when in fact it’s the 1000th dick he’s blown in the last week unbeknownst to the she male.

She’s smitten; there’s nothing like turning a “straight man” for a she male. And he has his hand out when she comes home from work after making hundreds or thousands from clients for whom she has no feelings. Pursuing trans-sex in the city truly is a gauntlet not for the faint of heart.

One girl who I met at a party and thought was a female eventually confided in me on several fronts. She knew I thought she was a fabulous female when I met her and that had she been a born-female, I would have been first in line for some pussy. Her complaint was that all the guys she was dating recreationally were straight and that her relationships were most unsatisfying because the sex basically consisted of her blowing them. And that was it. I’d had a fantasy about getting blown by this girl (what the hell) but when I heard her dilemma, my boner went south immediately. She was a friend of a friend (a female) and I figured if I displayed myself as yet another straight guy who just wanted to get his dick sucked by a pretty girl, my reputation might have gone even farther south than my boner. Apparently, sometimes the transsexual’s desire for a straight man can get in the way of her sexual satisfaction. If I were in love with a female and all she would let me do sexually was suck her pussy, I wouldn’t be a very happy camper either.

But on the other hand, another of my clients related a story which revealed that she really had turned a virgin into a lifelong cocksucker just by virtue of being totally attractive and seductive to the point that the guy really didn’t care. Just so he could be intimate with the “girl” he’d fallen in love with, sucking a cock seemed like a small leap.

And so it goes with trans-sex in the Big Apple. There are a million lonely stories in the naked city. And not all of them involve heterosexuals or even homosexuals. In the 21st century, the modern world they involve transsexuals as well.

HOW THE FUCK DO I KNOW ALL THESE TRANNIES?

An avid reader e-mailed me yesterday asking how I know all these trannies? Am I a consumer of their services or what? Well, I explained briefly in yesterday's column (which is actually ten years old) but let me elaborate further.

Once upon a time, I was a cab driver who began writing about my taxi-driving experiences for the industry paper as a creative outlet. From there, I gained a little notoriety and before I knew it had been published in some 40 publications the likes of the lofty Screw, Juggs and Leg Scene...all the way down to the depths of The New York Times, Daily News and New York Magazine. But while my free-lance career was impressive - though not that monetarily rewarding - nobody hired me full time until Action Magazine saved me from the yellow abyss.

My first day on that job, the boss pulled all the sales people (yes..part of my job was selling - not just writing) together and opened up Screw Magazine to challenge the sales staff: "Goldstein has 72 she male advertisers. We have 3. I want the other 69!" And so...it was our job to telemarket and chase those 69 trannies to try and get them to advertise in Action. And THAT'S how I know all the trannies.

I've written voluminously about their subculture (as well as many others in this business) and in due time will be sharing all those articles I once wrote for magazines catering to she males and the guys who love them. So enjoy. There are no sites like this on the internet. And best of all...it's free. Like how much better does it get? Have fun and PLAY SAFE! A word to the wise should be sufficient!

A CHRISTMAS CAROL: A Twisted Version of Beauty and the Beast

I know it's only June but after sifting through the archives, I just had to post this twisted piece of holiday wreckage I wrote about a stink mother fucking tranny ho named Aurelio Broccamontes, one of the most abusive assholes I ever (figuratively) bent over for to make a dime. What a fucking douchebag!

Once upon a time in not so old New York City, there lived a tranny madam - a huge-breasted, heavily-bearded, hair-plugged beast with lots of money in the bank - but a heart of stone. Everybody hated her. Her tranny ho’s hated her; her female ho’s hated her; her phone girls hated her. And most of all, the unfortunate people who prostituted themselves by taking her ad money to earn a living REALLY hated her. But none of this mattered. Just so she could torture her employees and count her money late at night, she was as happy as happy could be.

She lived in Hell’s Kitchen, surrounded by cabbies and the poverty-stricken. But as she walked her thousand dollar dogs through the litter-strewn streets of The Big City, she barely even noticed the destitution that surrounded her. All she could think of was the mansion she was building down in Mexico - the place she would eventually get away to when she’d had enough of dumb ho’s, vice cops, and stupid tricks.

Christmas Eve was especially cold that year - cold enough to freeze the proverbial witch’s tit! Regardless, The Beast trudged to the bank to deposit yet more money and exited the revolving door to return home to her slaves and dogs. Everybody in the house was festive. They all had the night off to go party. Only The Beast was unhappy. “Bah! Humbug” she shouted. “I guess you dumb bitches want the night off so you can go suck some cock for free,” she lamented. “And I sit around here making no money because you sluts don’t want to work on Christmas.”

But it was to no avail. The sluts ignored her. They knew she was just a small-dicked douche bag who would never be happy. And if the freak said one more thing, they could easily walk down the stroll and find another monster to flatback for.

Soon, all the girls had flitted out the door, switching their big, fake tranny asses and tits at the boss as they left - as if to say “Look what I have, baby. A big-dicked straight guy is gonna fuck the shit out of me tonight - and you’re gonna stay home ‘cause you’re a piece of shit mother fucker.”

The streets were strangely silent - as is always the case on Christmas Eve. Only the sounds of terrorist cabbies wishing each other well filled the air as they gassed up across the street from her home at The Hess Station. She decided to take a walk with the dogs it was such a peaceful night. Plus, the bitches were gone. No need to answer the phone. No self-respecting trick would wanna fuck her nasty ass. But it was all good. She was rich and her employees poor. That’s all that mattered!

Just as The Beast was totally immersed in her thoughts, a god walked up and began petting one of her dogs. “Merry Christmas, ma’am. Aren’t these the most beautiful dogs I’ve ever seen,” he baby-talked the canines as The Chosen One stooped to pet the little buggers. The Beast’s head swam with desire. “ I bet he’s got a real big cock,” the tranny fantasized to herself. “I wonder if he fucks tranny beasts. I hope so.” But little did she know that the stud had been commissioned by all the employees to swoon The Beast, go home with her - and of course, fuck the shit out of the monster.

And so, the beautiful one engaged our beast in conversation until that magic moment when she decided to take a chance. “It’s so cold out here. Why don’t you come over to my house. I live just around the corner and it’s real warm and cozy inside,” she waxed metaphorical.

Within minutes they had entered her little love cocoon on Tenth Avenue and it wasn’t long before the small talk commenced and her gaze centered on the bulge between his legs. Her mouth began to water, aching to open wide and let his presumed huge cock ravage the insides. Beauty knew what she was thinking (hey, trannies aren’t that complicated - nor are their dick-worshipping female counterparts) and arose from his seat to begin unbuckling his pants. “I must be getting fat,” he quipped. None of my pants seem to fit anymore.

She didn’t miss a beat. “Is it your waist that’s growing - or something else?” she led him on. With that, the stranger slowly dropped his pants to divulge not just a big, handsome dick - but the longest, thickest, throbbingest monster of a cock the world has ever known. She gasped in wonderment thinking “I like a big cock but where the hell am I gonna put that huge thing?” Indeed, it was so thick she feared her mouth simply would not stretch wide enough to house the hugeness of it all.

Suddenly, the theme from Jaws played on the radio. Dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun! A mad sneer came over the once friendly god’s face and a maniacal laugh came from his transformed spirit.

And then it happened! The god proclaimed “I am the ghost of Christmas past and I have come to avenge all your wrongs.” She wanted to calm down and just tell him “Fuck you! You’re just an asshole with a big dick” - but she just coudn’t. Something about this guy was otherworldly. He had rendered the bitch speechless and totally at his command in much the same way just hours before all her slaves were similarly submissive to HER demands!

It was hopeless. She opened as wide as she possible could as he jammed his tree trunk down her throat but it was like shoving an elephant dick in a rabbit. The tranny troll gurgled and guzzled in a futile attempt to house his titanic. And was the god gentle? Hell no! Why should he be? The Beast had always treated her employees like shit. Why should he treat her any differently? And so he pounded and pounded away at her face, literally stretching her mouth, palate and tonsils beyond repair. The beast thought there was no such thing as too big. But now she knew differently as every cell above her neck ached and screamed in pain!

Still it wasn’t over. Just as she was about to pass out from asphyxiation, he pulled out and turned her over in a flash. Ripping her pants off her body to reveal the gnarly, hairy ass, The Beast hated to show anybody, he spread her cheeks and busted her stink ass right there. It was almost a sorrowful sight - except considering the bitch who was getting manhandled - it wasn’t. Whatever, he pounded that whore’s ass as she helplessly screamed louder and louder with each deep and wide thrust of his humongous saber.

The Beast decided she‘d rather be dead. If only she had a gun with which to kill herself quickly - rather than the slow death the stud was inflicting upon her. But it was all no use. He grabbed her by the hair plugs to gain leverage and continued pounding her even deeper. She screamed in the night but nobody could hear. Or so she thought!

Suddenly, all the girls burst into the apartment screaming and laughing their she male asses off. “Fuck that bitch. Tear that pussy up!” they screamed at the stud. They could in no way shape or form control their glee at the vision of their slave driver boss getting ravaged by the stud. “Pound her, faggot. Kill that bitch,” they implored him over and over again. And over and over again he jammed his giant dick all the way up her ass as the crowd ooed and ahhhed with every single thrust!

After about five minutes of utter voyeuristic bliss, the girls relented for a moment. “OK! Now turn her over and come on her fucking face and we’ll pay you and you can go.” And there was her epiphanous moment! The Beast suddenly realized that this guy had been hired to fuck her...to humiliate her in much the same way she had her employees. What a relief. He wasn’t going to kill her. He was simply a whore for hire!

And so...he turned her over, whipped up his biggest, hardest erection and blew a huge load all over The Beast’s face as the peanut gallery screamed their approval. “Drown that fucking bitch, maricon. Now stuff it in her face.”

Moments later, the beast sat up and with cum dripping down her beard, eyes, nose and everything else she smiled at her employees and applauded “Good joke, girls. Merry Christmas.” But it wasn’t like that at all. The bitches meant business.

“Merry Christmas my ass! Fuck you bitch.” And with that, they all pelted her with snow and ice balls they’d gathered from across the street. And they weren't just pure white snowballs. They were those nasty kind of New York City soot-filled, blackened and gritty/grimy/salty snow balls. And the beast spat and screamed as the trannies pummeled her with delight.

After they’d exhausted themselves fully and were out of ammunition, all together and seemingly in harmony exclaimed “Fuck you. We quit.” And with that they paid the stud for a job well done and walked out of the apartment, slamming the door as they left.

The Beast lay there in a heap for hours, curled up in the fetal position. Not even the dogs would go near her they were so repulsed by the specter of their horrible mistress lying there buck naked sporting a face full of cum. For a mere second, she contemplated the meaning of what had just happened. And just for a moment, The Beast considered mending her ways. But nah! This isn’t merry old England. This is The Big Apple where nobody changes and there ARE no warm and happy endings.

By the next morning, she was on the phone, demanding of her battle ax of an ad rep that she find her new girls and compose help wanted ads to replace the old mutineer bitches. She could barely get around her ass was so sore from the pounding. And her throat was beat up and sore from the previous night’s attack. But she was no worse for the wear and soon enough, she would have new and improved people she could enslave. She would make more money and add a wing to her mansion. Fuck those bitches. Let them work somewhere else and find out what it’s like to work for a REAL douche bag.

And so our warm and fuzzy story ends - a Christmas Carol of sorts - but one more befitting the nasty underbelly of the sex for sale she male subculture of 21st century NYC - than its traditional18th century counterpart in merry old England. If I had my druthers, I think I’d rather go back in time and live old style. And just for a moment, as I wrote this twisted piece of prose, I got all warm and gushy and felt like I really WAS dining with Bob Kratchit and Tiny Tim back in the day. That’s what writing does for writers. It’s kind of like what a big dicked ass fucking does for a hot tranny ho.

THE SILENCE IS DEAFENING!

Last week in a burst of inspiration born from stark boredom, I launched my tranny site. The format is simple: REAL photos...nothing pornographic....and a lot of informative text I've compiled over the years from dealing in close quarters with the transgendered subculture. And it should be a no-brainer. There are no commercial sites with any insider info. And there are no commercial sites that feature REAL PIX ONLY. In the world of disinformation and bait and switch, this seemed to be the viable approach.

So I solicited via e-mail the aid of The Village Voice publisher...and the leading advertising agency in the local adult ad biz, both of whom directly derive their livings from my hard work. And what did I get? Nothing! Silence.

Let's take The Voice first. Backpage is a Voice-sponsored site...but not THEIR brainchild. It was conceived as a Craig knock off by a terminated executive to whom the corporation owed a favor. Backpage now runs way in the black and part of its success (at least in New York) is credited to yours truly (and that's by the owner - not by me). When I suggested The Voice be my partner), all I wanted was a banner ad in the paper every week...and maybe a little tech help. Is that so much to ask of a corporation which benefits from my hard work every day? And the answer to that is a thundering YES! I got no response from the publisher. But I did get an immediate response from the owner of Backpage to whom I cc'd the correspondence. His take was "They're not gonna do it. Don't waste your time."

Every week, The Voice runs a huge ad for sexyblackbook.com, a new site they're attempting to launch. And for the first time, I checked it out. It's dog shit! Almost EVERY photo is fake plus...there's no information about the girls...or any editorial of an informative or entertaining nature. THIS is THEIR brainchild. Not surprising they wouldn't see the potential in my tranny site.

Then there's Somad, the "leader" in adult advertising. That leader status comes from chronology and NOT vision - at least at this point. I e-mailed them suggesting they send me photos of their tranny clients to whom I would give free advertising for two weeks. After that, Somad could sell at a 30% commission. That should have been easy enough. Yeah, right! Nothing. Add to that...every time they sell an ad in Extreme Magazine, they have me to thank. I negotiated the deal for them. They didn't even know Extreme existed. Every time they sell an ad in Escort Magazine...they have me to thank. I WAS Escort Magazine until I bowed out under faux mafia pressure. Without me, there never would have been Escort Magazine. I started it! And get this: They make 15% of my money on The Village Voice in exchange for which they do NOTHING! I do ALL my artwork at this point.

Wait! I'm not done! I was instrumental in helping that agency win two wars (with competitors) and they don't even have the decency to throw down a few minutes of semi-work to join in on a project from a guy who's kept them alive? Bogus. You could say that I'm a time bomb waiting to explode and nobody wants to get near me. But the truth is they've pissed off more than a few employees in their history. I'm not alone. It's a syndrome!

Whatever! Here's something I know that they don't: I can check the internet service provider of every visitor to my site. I don't know who they are but I DO know how they get on the web. And more than occasionally (like this morning on the tranny beat site), I see yale.edu...or cornell.edu. That's right! Either Ivy League students - or their professors - log on to see what Dollar Bill has to say about the escort biz. And you can bet your ass that the ivy leaguers not only look at the pictures...but read the text as well. Maybe that's the problem. I'll bet that the publisher of The Voice and the agents at Somad don't have the energy to read the kind of information they are NOT privy to because they sit behind a desk all day.

And finally, CBS Sunday Morning is over and I need to do some laundry before I enjoy this gorgeous day. I'm not gonna spend all day crying about how unappreciated I am by the people whose mouths I feed. I'm just not that neurotic.